PAST PRESENT FUTURE

IT’S CHRISTMAS DAY 2020. Our Grand-Kids aren’t here, the pandemic is—well not right here in our bunker, but it’s just outside our door.

This is Christmas Past—1951. In two weeks I will be One.

My Christmas memories are a full sensory kaleidoscope made up of real trees, lights, tinsel, parades in downtown Tulsa, visiting Santa at Utica Square, music, candy, happy happy times.

Looking back, I know that Dad & Mom didn’t have a lot, but there was always an abundance. I remember waking and running into the living room on Christmas morning to see what Santa had brought. By about noon our eyes would be able to focus on the gifts. You see, Dad had an 8mm movie camera and attached to the top of that camera was a bank of blinding flood lights that literally made seeing what was under the tree an occasion of deferred gratification. He would position himself and his camera and light array so he could capture our expression as we came in the room. All of our Christmas morning movies are of me and my little brother trying to shield our rods and cones from the harsh rays.

This year will be the first Christmas without either of my parents. Dad passed in the summer of 2019 and Mom just a few days ago: pneumonia from COVID-19. I say that COVID took my Mom, which is medically true but also humanly speaking. My Mom loved Christmastime, all of it. The forced aloneness of the pandemic was slowly draining the life from her. I’m not sure she could have tolerated a Covid Christmas. As I’ve watched news of people in nursing homes getting the vaccine I can’t help but wonder: if she could have made it just a few more weeks…

This is Christmas present.

The only wrapping paper strewn across our living room floor is from the present my Amazing-Missus gave to me. We watched the unwrapping of gifts for the Grand-Kids via Facetime®. It’s not the same. Maybe I will tune in to Peppa Pig later, just because. In the meantime, I’m writing this essay while listening to The Beatles’ “Revolver” album. As I said, This is Christmas present.

That gift that I unwrapped, the one my Amazing-Missus gave me! I have to tell you about it.

I have always had a tendency to dream big and do little—sort of like Clark Griswald, dreaming of a pool in the backyard and a Norman Rockwell Christmas. Here’s an example: I have a dream house—sort of like Barbie’s but bigger and less pink. I have pictures of this house. I have chosen the rock for the exterior and all the stuff for the interior finishes. The only things lacking are a lot to build it on and any intention of actually doing so.

This morning I unwrapped my gift. It was a round tube. She said, “This is a gift you will never use.”

“A treadmill?” I guessed.

I have a good friend who is one of Oklahoma’s best architects. When I opened the tube, inside were blueprints for my dream house. My amazing Amazing-Missus had contacted my friend and now I have a set of plans for the house that may very well always remain just a dream.

That’s characteristic of Christmas Future. Sort of uncertain. This holiday season has reminded me that life is fragile. Oh! Don’t get me wrong! I would love to one day see our Grand-Kids opening presents in the living room of that dream home.

So, 69 Christmases have come and gone for me. Past, present and future, I know this: that story the one about that baby born in Bethlehem? That’s what matters. I’m not trying to sound holy. I’m telling you what I know, what I’ve experienced. The only lasting peace, the only enduring love, the only truth; is in THAT story.

In the meantime, want to see POPS’ DREAM HOUSE? Maybe you could pretend to come and visit us there.

DON’T BLAME THE MAILMAN

USUALLY BY THIS TIME the Christmas cards I’ve designed have arrived from the printer and we’re sending them out to friends and family whether they want one or not. Not this year though.

a few custom cards from years gone by

It’s not a delay in the printing process, nor a failure of the postal service. It’s not that we’re in despair from this quarantine quagmire. We decided last year—Christmas 2019—would be our last year to send out cards. Had we known what Christmastime 2020 would look like, I might have gone on with a card design—something apropos and uplifting. The cover of it might have looked something like this.

merry christmas 2020 from dave & Arlene

With text on the inside that might have said something like this: Q: What do you call 3 guys in robes and turbins, riding camels and maintaining safe social distancing? A: Wise Men.

But, I didn’t have those printed and we have nothing to mail. I received a call from my dear Aunt Betty to inquire about our card, maybe concerned that her’s was lost in the mail. When I told her we decided not to send cards this year she said, “I don’t blame you. A call is just as good.” I agreed with her—in spirit—but I don’t intend to call all y’all.

“You want a Christmas Card!? All right. Here; here’s your Christmas Card.”

— Elaine Benes

Seriously and sincerely, let this be our Christmas wish: That you and yours will know peace. That you will discover wonderful ways to celebrate safely, because the season calls for the celebration of hope and joy, now more than any other time in a long, long time.

Fear not!

TIME TO REDECORATE?

ON A SUNDAY NIGHT, a man, along with his soul, stumbled into a church. A friend of mine was the music director at this church which was located downtown, a stone’s throw from the bus station. He was telling me the story, which was not unusual; this was not the first wayfarer to venture in to this church.

The man was clearly under the influence of something: jug wine, mis-taken medication or maybe a spirit of some kind; holy or otherwise. This was a Baptist church, and a time, back a few years ago, when Baptist churches gathered on Sunday night and each service ended in an alter call. On this night the wanderer wandered down the aisle and announced to the church that he was there to “redecorate his life!”

He wasn’t far off. On the little card designed to note any and all alter call responses, you would write your name and check the box for the type of decision you were making, one of the choices was: Rededication.

Redecoration / Rededication… There’s probably room for both.

The other day, I received a message from an e-magazine, one I had written for a few times called “The Curator”. I clicked through to the magazine and read a couple of those old articles. One in particular, written ten years ago brought back memories and surprised me with how real it seems to me still and how relevant the themes of restoration, redecoration, rededication, recreation and renewal are, and how maybe I’m in need.

I thought about copying and pasting the piece here for those who might want to read it, but I may have given sole publication rights to the magazine. So, I’ll include the link to the article here in case you would like CHECK IT OUT.

The Call of the Mud Angels by Dave Fuller

SHOT OR NOT

ROLES CHANGE, or maybe it’s more accurate to say roles are layered on us.

I started life as a son, then a few years later the role of brother was added on. If you could ask my mom and dad how well I played these roles, hopefully I would get a B- or C+ (if you’re grading on the curve). My brother, on my role as big brother, would be more harsh if he were being fair about it. He had a couple of close calls with death (without intent or malice) from his big brother.

One had to do with me trying to create my own entry into the school science fair, third grade, best I remember. I cut the female end off of an extension cord, stripped the insulation back a bit and taped the bare ends of the wire to a small metal folding chair. I had my little brother all strapped in and was ready to plug in my experiment, testing the thesis of the electric chair, when my dad saw what’s was going on and saved my little brother, leaving me without a science fair project.

The other had to do, innocently enough, with me experimenting with making chlorine gas. Now that I think about it, it was just about this time that my parents began to encourage me to explore the arts rather than science.

While we’re on the subject of experiments, I want to give a shout out to Jonas Salk and Albert Bruce Sabin who, in the 1950s, developed separate vaccines—one from killed virus and the other from live virus—to combat the dreaded disease polio. We’ll come back to them.

The next role layer for me was that of husband when My Amazing-Missus said Yes!! (I’ve added both of the exclamation points, I don’t know if she was actually that excited.)

Then in 1981, Corey was born and I became Dad. And then in 1987, Kyle was born and I was Dad to two wonderful boys.

Over the years I’ve had many non-familial roles. For many of those I can’t believe how blessed I have been to get to play.

In November 2008, an event occured so profound that my next role even came with a name change. Our first Grand-Girl was born and I became Pops. Now there are seven: five girls, two boys. This is a role I cherish so much I started keeping a journal about it all. Over time that became a blog—a blog about this role—About being Pops.

That’s a long swirling introduction to the point of this particular post. It is a post to say YES, I WILL TAKE THE COVID VACCINATION AS SOON AS SOMEONE WILL GIVE IT TO ME.

The oldest of our two Grand-Sons is Malachi. He’s three. On the rare occasions we get to see him and the others these days because of the virus, departing is always hard. Malachi has these beautiful curious eyes that look deep in you. His mouth is always in a sort of half smile.

MALACHI AND POPS

Every time we have to leave after a visit, he looks through my eyes and into my heart and says, “Can I go to yours [sic] house?”

My Amazing-Missus and I were talking about the exciting news of a vaccine potential and she asked if I would be willing to take an early version of it. I told her, “All I have to do is picture Malachi asking, “Can I go to yours house?” and they can shoot anything they want into any vein they choose. I AM READY!

I have an important role to play. Being Pops gives meaning and significance to my life. I can’t do it if I’m on a ventilator or worse. I know, I know. Some say the vaccine could be riskier than the disease.

When I was about five years old, my parents lined me up with hundreds of other kids at the elementary school to get a sugar cube soaked with a dose of live polio virus. Was it dangerous? Of course it was. Was it worth it? Of course it was. Were my parents terrified? I’m sure they were. They had a role to play. They decided that love meant trusting science and praying for the best.

So shoot me.